


Fizzle

by cupstealer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gay Porn Hard, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, there are feelings in here because i'm trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4023928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupstealer/pseuds/cupstealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny pretty much knows when he’s playing well. Pat likes to tell him anyways.</p><p>(In which Kaner needs to chill.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fizzle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gay Porn Hard 2015. I wrote this super rushed and haven't edited it, so, you know, errors abound. For the prompt 4, "winding each other up in public." Sorta. I'll probably come back and fix this up later, but since it's for the game tonight, here you go! Thank you and I'm sorry.
> 
> Partially inspired by this [picture](http://cupstealer.tumblr.com/post/82917934022/patrick-kane-tending-bar-during-the-keith-relief).

Objectively speaking, it had been an okay game. It hadn’t felt that way from the bench. On the ice, things are simpler: situation, opportunity, response; go, go, go. The bench is always different. It had been a back and forth game, in terms of plays and scoring. Lots of weird bounces, improbable passes connecting and simple ones missing. They pulled out the win in the end, and everyone that Pat can see from his spot on Bicksy’s couch looks relieved not to have to stew on the little changes they could have made, like Calgary has to.

It had been a hard win, and Pat is still kind of vibrating from it. Gamewinners do this to him.

He’d taken a long shower, listened to his ‘mellow’ playlist through his cool down session on the bike, and downed two beers listening to a conversation between Duncs and Abby about _Dexter_ that should have been the aural equivalent of Ambien. No dice, still jittery.

Pat looks down and realizes that he’s shredded the labels off like three empties and embarrassedly picks the bits of paper off Bicks’ hardwood floor. He’s gotta do something about this energy. But, shit, it had been 44 seconds to overtime when an absolutely gorgeous wrister sliced right through two defenseman and Calgary’s hopes and dreams, five-hole. Afterward, Pat had to pull up a replay on his phone in the stairwell where no one would catch him so he could see the shot from the goal cam. And then watch it four more times. And now he’s all hopped-up on adrenalin or whatever, which wouldn’t be a problem if they’d gone to a club or something but they hadn’t and this is a chill post victory hangout because there’s a baby upstairs so Pat can’t even seek refuge in terrible, passionate lip syncing, which is his go-to. And now Abby’s giving him a weird look. He’s still cupping the paper bits in one hand.

He stands and works his way over to the kitchen, where he throws the paper away and looks around for an outlet for his energy. He’d been like this a lot as a kid, keyed up before and after games, thriving on every chance to go out there and prove somebody wrong. Pat would throw a ball around or run his mouth for hours just to get to the point where he could consider sleep. Both being on the other side of puberty and the heightened compete level of the big show had mostly taken care of that particular issue. After a full game and a bike session, Pat can normally pass out on any horizontal surface you give him. But tonight, he’s still on edge, as if they were all still on the bench waiting for overtime to start. Like it never ended. Like that finale was too fucking sweet to be real.

And it wasn’t even Pat’s goal.

To the left of the Bickells’ trashcan is their kitchen island, now a makeshift bar area (they, of course, have a wet bar, but some keen sense of self-preservation led the hosts to move the bottles to an area where clean up is simpler and their crystal is far away). Shawsy is pouring a wildly disproportionate Jack & Coke for some unfortunate soul. Pat's cousin was a bartender for a few years at different casinos near the Falls and she’d taught Pat a fair bit of her trade over the years. He hasn’t really put the skill to use besides some charity events. Pat’s got his cellphone in one hand and he realizes he’s been flipping it over and over, almost compulsively. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a cocktail shaker and grins.

 

Ten minutes later, he is firmly established as bartender with a little highball glass tip jar he keeps nudging toward people while coughing loudly. He’s got his sleeves rolled up and his cap turned around. Now that he’s got his hands occupied, he can actually focus on talking to people.

Pat’s handing a G&T to Krugs when Jonny slides onto one of the stools across the island from Pat, eyes on the TV screen playing ESPN’s Top 10 over Pat’s shoulder. Without looking at Pat, he raps on the marble, “Gin fizz with a cherry and a swirly straw, on the rocks. Don’t use the cheap stuff.”

“You think you’re so funny.” Jonny just grins at the screen. He’s still got his game day button down on with a couple buttons undone at the throat because it’s Jonny.

Pat looks away to find the shaker because if Jonny’s gonna order an egg white slushie, he’s gonna drink one. Under the countertop, he googles a recipe on his phone, then turns to the fridge to grab another lemon, some cream, and an egg. Doing his best to look like he’s casually working on a normal drink for someone else, he puts all the shit into the shaker (except orange flower water because who the fuck keeps that around?) and gets to work.

The repetitive, controlled motion is perfect for Pat; it feels good to do something, to feel a little strain on his muscles that reminds his body that it’s already played a fucking game tonight, to tell it to chill. He’s been pushing martinis hard. After a minute, he pries the canister apart and adds the ice, shaking for another minute. When he glances up from his work, Jonny’s doing his spaced-out mouth-breather routine, looking totally wiped. Which is funny to Pat because it looks like Tazer’s ogling Pat’s arms instead of undergoing his body’s descent into Sleep Mode. Pat bites his lip and flexes super obviously to get laugh out of Tazer, still shaking the cocktail while holding some bodybuilder poses.

Jonny’s eyes go all crinkled when he leans his head back to laugh, and Pat has to look away and focus on finding a jar of cherries before he gets all weird. He’s gotten used to being around Jonny and the challenges to his composure that it can bring, but sometimes Pat forgets how to just be normal around him. It’s especially hard when all he can think about is that goal, that sack-tapped feeling of sudden victory.

Pat strains the drink over fresh ice and a cherry, as requested, and pours some club soda on top. He presents the glass to Tazer showily, “Couldn’t find a swirly straw, your highness.”

Jonny’s rolling his eyes, “Ah fuck, shoulda known you’d actually fucking make one. What the hell’s in this?” Because of course a gin fizz was just the silliest drink name he could think of, no idea what it was.

Pat shrugs, looking at Jonny expectantly until he raises the glass to his mouth. Once he’s mid-sip, Pat says “Raw egg,” just to enjoy the choking noise Jonny makes and the bit of drink that spills onto his rumpled, $1,000 or more shirt. Jonny sets the glass down, looking betrayed.

“You’re the one who ordered it!” Pat tells Jonny’s sad eyes. Now it’s Jonny’s turn to shrug, eyeing the glass. He takes another sip.

“It’s actually pretty good.”

“Tell it to the tip jar, buddy.” Jonny nods like this is reasonable and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He makes a show of pulling all his bills out to find a penny, which he proceeds to benevolently drop into the glass, looking proud of himself.

Pat scoffs and grabs his own drink while Jonny’s still laughing at himself. Loser. Pat sighs.

“Not that I think your ego needs any help, but that goal, Tazer…”

Jonny’s blushing a little, “Yeah? Yeah, it was… it worked out. Great pass from Hoss.”

“It was a fucking beauty,” Kaner says, eyeing Jonny seriously. Jonny’s shifting in his seat, rubbing his thumb idly across the rim of the drink in his hand with an uneven grin.

He looks up at Pat with the laser eyes, “Thanks, man.” Pat is so pathetic, he’s actually a little chubbed up right now. And at least partially from thinking about that goal, which doesn’t really help his case.

Pat leans on the counter and sets himself to damage control, “Yeah, well. I guess it makes up for you being a cheap tipper.”

Thankfully, Amanda Bickell comes by then asking for a martini. Pat turns all his focus to shaking it up. He’s coaxing an olive out of its jar with a careful finger when he hears a choking noise. Jonny apparently got an ice chip caught in his throat. Their hostess is slapping him on the back, laughing, and Jonny’s red again.

“You okay, buddy?” Pat says, plopping the olive into the martini glass and sliding it to Amanda. She shoots him a wink and walks away.

Jonny clears his throat, “Yeah, yeah. I should probably go though. My… mom said she wanted me to call her tonight, and it’s getting late.” His eyes follow Pat’s hands as he rinses the canister and strainer in the sink.

Pat could tease him about leaving a party to call his mom, but Pat doesn’t have much room to talk there.

He still rolls his eyes a little. “Okay, Jonny. Tell her Kaner says hi.”

“Will do,” Jonny stands and stretches his arms a little. The stain from the cocktail is, of course, right over where Jonny’s shirt is stretched over a pebbled nipple. Pat waves him off.

 

It isn’t for another twenty minutes after Jonny wanders off in search of a ride that Pat feels like his he’s gotten his excess energy out. He feels like he’s going to crash soon, so gives up his bartending gig to sit on a stool and chat with Sharpy. Which is when he notices Tazer’s phone, lying forgotten on another stool.

 

\------------

 

He gets to Jonny’s place about an hour later and lets himself in. Pat called Jonny’s home phone when he found his cell, but Jonny wasn’t home yet and no one had answered.

“Jonny?” No response. “Tazer? I brought your phone, man.”

Pat toes off his shoes and throws his coat over a chair, listening for signs of life. A TV is on.

Other than the living room, Jonny only has one TV. Because he’s a hippie, he refuses to keep one in his bedroom. Because he’s a hypocrite, he keeps one in a guest room that he seems to use pretty regularly. Pat knocks on the guest room door, counts to 5 (just in case Jonny was jerking it because longtime roommates have a code and it is sacred), and opens it.

Jonny’s on the bed in a t-shirt and briefs, and he looks understandably surprised to see Patrick in his doorway. He’s got a dim bedside light on, painting one side of his face yellowy orange while the glow from the screen makes the other half blue.

“Hey man, you left your phone at Bicksy’s,” Pat holds said phone up and glances at the TV, which is paused. Game tape. Wow.

“Oh, shit, thanks. I didn’t even notice.” Jonny runs a hand through his hair, then holds it up to catch his phone when Pat tosses it to him. “That’s gonna get me in trouble one day, huh.”

Pat leans on the doorframe. “Whatcha watchin, there?”

“Second period,” is all Jonny says. As far as Pat knows, Jonny doesn’t do this as much as he used to. Fixate, stew. He doesn’t look like he’s stewing now—they won, for fuck’s sake—but maybe like he’s trying to figure the game out before his brain can put it to rest. Pat gets that.

“Want some company?”

Jonny looks surprised, but he doesn’t say no. He scoots over from where he’s propped against the headboard at the middle of the bed, making room. Pat plops down and gathers the pillows the way he likes them behind his back. He turns his cap forwards so he can lean back. Jonny passes his beer to Pat and presses play. They trade short comments back and forth, eyes on the screen, picking apart their power play and other disasters. Jonny’s got the commentary muted now, to forestall the snarky (“annoying”) responses Pat can’t hold in or for some other reason. They’re both pretty tired, eventually slouching lower on the bed, heads still tipped up to watch. Jonny grabs a blanket from the foot of the bed and settles in.

Pat points at the miniature Jonny on screen with the bottle, “Smart play. Couldn’t see it so clear from the bench, but that coulda been really dangerous. Fucking nice pass.”

Jonny’s fidgeting next to him, doesn’t say anything. He holds his hand out for the bottle and takes a long drink from it. Then in the third, there’s a penalty kill where one of those weird fucking bounces had Calgary turning the puck over to Jonny who was off to the races with Saader. Glove save, no rebound, but quality.

Pat doesn’t have to tell Jonny when he’s playing well. Jonny knows. Most of the commentary they trade is criticism and advice. Sometimes the advice is taken, other times no. But Jonny pretty much knows when he’s playing well. Pat likes to tell him anyways. Partly because Jonny does the same to him, in locker rooms and interviews, with crushingly sincere praise and respect. And partly because Jonny doesn’t always seem to know what to do with it. He enjoys the praise, Patrick knows. It gives him this douchey smirk or a pleased little grin he can’t seem to control. But it also makes him twitchy, and nine times out of ten he ends the conversation pretty soon after. Pat’s kind of fascinated by it.

He nudges Tazer with his elbow, “Dat speed doh.”

“Shut the fuck up, Kaner.”

“I’m serious, man, you’re like a puma,” he pats Jonny’s monster thigh and accepts that he might be a little drunk.

“Stop,” is all Jonny says. Pat grins to himself.

And then there’s a beautiful mid-ice hit Jonny laid on Colborne and Patrick makes Jonny pause it and replay it just to admire it.

“Fuck,” Patrick says, smiling. Jonny is definitely flushing, from the neck up, but he’s trying to school his face into a neutral or exasperated expression. Pat steals the remote and replays it again in triple slow-mo. “Look. At. That.” He turns to face Tazer. “Shit, Jonny.”

Jonny scrubs a hand across his face. His eyebrows are knit together. “Pat, knock it off.”

“What?”

“I’m not sober enough to deal with you sitting here talking up my play. It was a good hit, leave it.”

Pat’s pretty confused. Jonny doesn’t look angry or like he thinks he’s being made fun of, but he does look serious. “But I—” Pat doesn’t get it. And Jonny doesn’t look like he wants to elaborate.

And then Pat notices how Jonny’s sitting.

Patrick Kane practically invented that pose, and it has served him well. It’s the stance that hid his boners under a casual blanket during _Underworld_ , _Troy_ , and, memorably, _Wedding Crashers_. And yeah, okay, maybe while watching a few games. And now it’s being used against him. Pat silently watches the next minute of play while his brain implodes. It’s not a huge bed, so they’re sitting kind of close to each other. Jon’s watching the screen with a scary amount of focus. And he smells good. He smelled good when Pat first sat down.

Pat doesn’t know what the play is here. And, fuck, now he’s thinking about that dumb cellphone commercial, which would be a definite boner killer. He wishes he could project the thought to Jonny so he could be comfortable except how he doesn’t want Jonny to lose the boner Pat potentially gave him. Which. Um. Might elucidate the play a bit.

Hockey comes through for Pat, as it always does. Jonny’s still in his forced casual position while they watch Calgary tie up the game. Pat keeps his mouth shut. He’s kind of going crazy at this turn of events, but he doesn’t want Jonny to be uncomfortable.

Then it’s the final minute of the third and Hossa gets the puck to Jonny from the behind the net. Jonny settles it down and just.

Patrick groans. So fucking pretty. He turns.

“Jonny. Hey, Jonny.” Jonny’s still looking at the replay of his goal on the screen, watching his own celly, which Pat knows for a fact he hates doing. “Jonny.”

“What, Kaner?” It’s harsh and tired at the same time.

Pat’s gotta jump in before he misses his chance here. But he doesn’t even remotely know the best way to do this, so he just goes up on one elbow and sort of grabs Jonny’s chin, and lands the world’s quickest kiss on Jonny’s cheek.

He pulls away immediately because he’s a chicken and also he hasn’t quite processed what’s he’s done yet (which is good because his game apparently reverted to the fourth grade), but his fingers are still resting under Jonny’s chin, his index finger crooked beneath his sharp jaw. Jonny is wide-eyed in that Jonny way of his that has more to do with his slack mouth than his eyes. He’s staring at Pat’s mouth. Pat licks his lips, not really thinking about it.

Jonny takes in a slow breath, lets out a slower breath. He’s up on one elbow now, mirroring Pat. He finally looks Pat in the eye, what Pat was waiting for. He kisses the corner of Jonny’s mouth, soft and lingering a little. Jonny has plenty of time to react. He still hasn’t moved. Pat drags his lips barely, barely across Jonny’s and then it’s Jonny who wakes up, moves Pat's hat out of the way, and takes Pat’s lower lip between his. It’s soft and mostly dry, but most of all quiet. Pat brings his fingers, trembling a little, to sweep down Jonny’s cheek, his jaw. To pull his head in closer, tilt it a little. He swipes the tip of his tongue across the scar on Jonny’s upper lip and leans back.

Jonny looks stoned. It’s been a while since Pat’s seen that, but he remembers it well enough. And Pat’s the one who made him look like this.

It’s Jonny who pulls Kaner in with a hand on his back. Their bodies are nearly flush now that they’re both lying on their sides. Pat wants to sling his leg over Jonny’s but he doesn’t want to break whatever spell is holding all this together. So he lets Jonny pull him back in and licks in slow. The hand on his back runs down his arm to reach for Pat’s hand. Jonny’s eyes are shut, and he’s running his fingertips across and over Pat’s hands, over and over. It’s driving Pat crazy, making him slightly ticklish even through the callouses. On instinct, he goes to bite his own lip to get through the shaky sparks Jonny’s touch is sending through him. He ends up sort of biting both their lips. Then Jonny’s making this broken humming noise and Pat’s heart is going so, so fast, he’s going to die. Jonny’s mouth is on his neck then and Pat is gasping into the air of the dim room.

“Jonny, fu…” Pat’s breathless and they haven’t done anything Pat wasn’t doing in middle school. Jonny shuffles his body in closer, curving into Pat’s, and he can feel Jonny’s erection pressing up against his briefs. And now they’re officially past middle school.

There are teeth just below his jaw and he needs Jonny closer, some heavy touch to get him through these wicked, light touches. He pushes so that Jonny is leaning back on both elbows and throws a leg over, situating himself on Jonny and leaning down for another slow kiss. Pat strokes his thumbs under the hem of Jonny’s shirt, rocking just a little, getting watery-eyed just a little. He can’t believe this is happening. In 2015.

Jonny pulls back, opening his eyes slowly and huffing out a breath Pat can feel. How is this happening.

“Pat?” Pat’s eyes are shut. He’s just breathing, still stroking Jonny’s skin.

Eventually, “Yeah?”

“You okay?” Jonny’s so quiet. And Pat doesn’t know how to answer. So he drops his head to Tazer’s shoulder and presses a hard kiss there. Jonny lets him stay there for a minute, collecting himself.

“Are you?” Pat asks.

Jonny huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh, “Don’t know.”

Pat lies there on Jonny, who’s surprisingly comfortable, and processes.

After a minute, “Holy shit!”

“What?” Jonny’s craning his neck to look at Pat’s face.

“You got turned on by me getting an olive out of jar! That was a turned on choke! An olive got you hot, Jonny!” He doesn’t leave room for denial and Jonny doesn’t try it. Pat’s slapping Jonny’s chest, cracking up. Jonny’s belly laughing under Pat. He catches the hand on his chest and holds it still.

“Your hands, Kaner. Not a fucking olive, okay? I’m not some… condiment fucker.” Now they’re both laughing hysterically. Or, Kaner is until Jonny’s cradling his hand in that gentle way again. If Pat has any talent at reading body language, Jonny wants to kiss his hand but also thinks that would be really, really lame. So he’s just staring at Pat’s hand in his hand looking real intense. Pat brings that hand to Jonny’s lips, pulls his mouth open a little and goes to town, leaving his fingers there to rub across the slight stubble along his jaw.

Pat loves kissing. He loves when his lips are sore, when his jaw feels tired, used. And Jonny is all about getting his teeth on Pat’s lips. Pat's painfully hard. They’ve got this slow, quiet thing going and it’s better than great, honestly. But Jonny tugging on Pat’s bottom lip is making him desperate. He grinds down, using his grip on one of Jonny’s hips to line them up. Jonny’s hands go straight to Pat’s ass, pulling him down harder and they both groan.

“Pat, your pants have got to go.” Jonny’s full-on panting.

“Good call,” is all Pat can manage. He’s never been good at doing the whole taking pants off while horizontal thing, so he gets up, much to Jonny’s obvious dismay.

He kicks his pants off as quickly as possible and climbs right back on top of Jonny, which feels totally different without jeans in the way. Pat is not going to last, like at all. Tazer pulls him down and starts a slow, rolling rhythm. Pat can’t even kiss him because he needs all the air he can get. Jonny’s so warm though his shirt, he smells amazing, God.

Jonny’s hands slide under the top of Pat’s briefs, stroking over his ass. It’s a light touch, just like all his other touches and Pat is going to die. Pat withdraws his hands from Jonny’s chest and reaches back to push Jonny’s hands into groping instead of the caresses that were taking Pat out of his mind in a way he isn’t okay with just yet.

“Fuck,” Jonny breathes. He digs his fingers into Pat’s asscheeks, urging Pat’s pelvis harder and harder into Jonny.

Pat’s getting close and all he can get out is, “Jonny, Jonny, I’m…”

“Yeah, Pat, come on,” Jonny’s breathing in Pat’s ear and flexing the fingers on Pat’s ass and working his hips up and up and up Pat’s just gone.

It’s several moments or days before he can tilt his body off Jonny’s to make room for his hand to reach into Jonny’s briefs and stroke steadily. Jonny’s chest is rising and caving crazily. He’s leaning to his bedside table to get some lube when Pat has an idea.

“You said my hands, right?” Jonny just looks confused, so Pat takes the reins. He pulls Jonny’s briefs down so Jonny can watch the show. With a little lube in his hand, Pat has Jonny jerking up into his grip, eyes glued to Pat’s hand as he twists his wrist, squeezing hard.

Jonny keeps switching between leaning back with his eyes closed and forcing his head forward to watch. It would look really stupid if it weren't so hot to Pat. His shirt has ridden up, letting the orange-blue light show the way his abs are working to thrust his cock into the tight circle of Pat's fingers. Pat gets caught up staring at Jonny's entire body working toward his pleasure, just watching, absently swiping his thumb across the head of Jonny's cock the way Pat likes. Jonny's not looking at Pat's hands when Pat glances up, but right at Pat with dark eyes (okay, his eyes are always dark, but Pat is feeling some kinda way about the expression on his face).

"Jon, Jonny, you look so good. I don't," Pat swallows, feeling more desperate as his own orgasm recedes further and further, "Jonny, what do you need?"

Jonny's struggling to find his voice. Pat hasn't let up with his hand for a moment.

"Just... just," he stretches, feet flexing, "Just keep going."

Pat goes with that, feeling the flex of the same arm muscles he wore out during the game and then during vigorous bartending. He grits his teeth, slowing with purposeful squeezes. He latches his mouth onto Jonny's neck, speeding up again, enjoying the whoosh of Jonny's breath above him. Jonny's hips are working hard, and Pat keeps up the pressure till Jonny snaps on an upstroke, coming forcefully.

Jonny’s making some embarrassing noise as he convulses a little, the hand he has on Pat’s bicep clenching painfully. Pat works him through it, then flops down, stretching out his tired arm a little while Jonny's hopefully too fucked out to notice.

“Fuck,” Jonny groans.

“Yeah.”

Pat doesn’t know what happens now. He doesn’t have the energy to move so he isn’t going to try. He feels Jonny’s fingers, tracing their way down to his hand and weaving their way between Pat’s own fingers. Pat hangs on.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://cupstealer.tumblr.com)!


End file.
